


All the clocks in the city ( began to whir and chime )

by DeyaniraSan, Niahara_Erskine



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Clockwork - Freeform, Drabble, M/M, Manikins, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 03:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeyaniraSan/pseuds/DeyaniraSan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niahara_Erskine/pseuds/Niahara_Erskine
Summary: There was an unspoken rule in the magical community about building artificial humans. From the ages long passed, though it was not forbidden, it was considered a sacrilege to bind an existence to one’s self, an unwilling puppet meant to serve and exist only for their master until either of them died. It usually ended with the death of the doll - or better said its self destruction - since the bright light of a soul could not be tampered with in such way to fit the inorganic and imperfect materials of any kind of vessel. In the end their destiny was to crumble, fade away in the same unceremonious way they were created, the universe finally taking pity and severing such wretched existence.





	All the clocks in the city ( began to whir and chime )

Akashi finds the manikin in a dumpster, limbs askew and gears whirring pitifully; a useless piece of machinery discarded once its magic had run out, an apparatus touched by ephemeral perfection now lying collapsed under the fragile weight of its own existence. It should be the end of the story; he has no need for the trash other people had thrown away. However, against all odds, the manikin opens its eyes, cerulean blue bearing into his own gaze with a look of staggering determination, an icy fire that is so at odds with its appearance, strikingly alive, lit with a persistent flame some humans could never even hope to posses. 

Akashi falters surprised, and he is not  _ intrigued _ , but there is something in that motionless face enough to make him stagger, his steps coming to a stop as his eyes fully turn around to watch how the last moments of this creature’s existence will play out - because there is no doubting it, the manikin was just barely holding on the tepid magic gluing (or perhaps trapping) its existence to this realm. 

There was an unspoken rule in the magical community about building artificial humans. From the ages long passed, though it was not forbidden, it was considered a sacrilege to bind an existence to one’s self, an unwilling puppet meant to serve and exist only for their master until either of them died. It usually ended with the death of the doll - or better said its self destruction - since the bright light of a soul could not be tampered with in such way to fit the inorganic and imperfect materials of any kind of vessel. In the end their destiny was to crumble, fade away in the same unceremonious way they were created, the universe finally taking pity and severing such wretched existence. 

_As is the one lying in the dumpster about to do now._   


The doll’s mouth opens, a clinking, metallic sound echoing with more emotion than any puppet of such sorts has the right to command, the jarred screech of wires and artificial pieces creating a desolating song of unsaid anguish as the mechanical pieces grind against each other in stubbornness and desperation, a pitiful show of determination. Akashi’s eyes seem impassive as they watch the machine seemingly ready to collapse, and a surprising feeling of distant sorrow seems to permeate through his heart; a recognition and admiration for a wretched being struggling to survive against of all odds. It is a pathetic sight, one that stirs something in existence - uncomfortable, alien and misplaced - in relation to his soul.

“Don’t,” it says, eyes straying to the staff in his hand, to the magic already building beneath pale fingers. “I don’t want to die.” And he notes that even in this state there is something keenly aware in the doll, striking intelligence behind shadowed eyes still burning like a star on the darkening sky of an imminent dawn. It makes him appreciate it, even if such sentiments are futile, worthless in face of the present. 

The manikin moves, slow, achingly, broken limbs bringing themselves together sluggishly, ball-joint arms pressing on the edges of the dumpster, trying to raise himself. The clockwork inside him whirs brokenly and he falls, frustration twisting ceramic features as the last bit of strength is siphoned out of him.

“The magic inside you is almost spent,” the mage points out, scarlet eyes taking in the decaying body, the paint of the ceramic vessel peeling and cracking, the gears moving slower and slower with each passing moment, a degeneration of the being that looks unfitting on a creature of such will. Alas, such dolls were never meant to last; a perversion of magic still allowed by the rules of their world, a simulacrum of life bound to an otherwise crumbling body; an unnatural reprieve on the natural order of things. Souls were never meant to be bound to the creation of men, the very core of such an existence a blasphemy to life itself.

“I know,” it says, “I will die soon. But I do not want to. I want to live.” And Akashi finds himself in another uncomfortable position of being moved by this creature; eyes the colour of the clearest summer sky bear into scarlet, the contrasting will of a dying soul meeting up with the alive, yet impassive gaze of a colder existence. 

It would be easy, all too easy to put an end to it. It would even be a mercy; manikins cannot feel pain, but if they could the doll would suffer immensely. Perhaps he should; and yet the emotion shining in the cerulean gaze, the determination twisting mechanic features, the desire to live beating more powerfully in a clockwork heart than in does in human souls stays his hand.

He cannot repair the manikin; but perhaps he could find someone to help it.

So he does. 

And foolishly that’s how it dooms them both. 


End file.
